


Suicidal in the Morning

by victoria_p (musesfool)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: 5 Things, Gen, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-31
Updated: 2010-01-31
Packaged: 2017-10-06 21:32:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,471
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/57969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/musesfool/pseuds/victoria_p
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five ways Dean Winchester has thought of killing himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Suicidal in the Morning

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Nichole for looking it over.

[**one.**]

Dean stands under the lukewarm spray of the shower, trying to wash the nearly permanent gritty feeling from his eyes. He didn't sleep last night; he's been awake for twenty-seven hours already, and has about six hours of driving ahead of him, and then another two or three of recon and research before the question of sleeping again will come up. He hums tunelessly, and chokes on a mouthful of water when he's not paying attention.

He wonders if it's possible to drown in the shower. Wonders if this is one of the ways he died during that endless loop of Tuesdays he doesn't remember and won't ask Sam about.

He remembers the black, bloated look of drowned bodies pulled from the water, the morbid wisecracks about people who die in the john.

He decides he doesn't want to go this way, even if it's possible. Too undignified, even for him. Instead, he lathers up with the sliver of soap that's left and tries to wash the weariness away.

*

[**two.**]

Dean's been driving since he was twelve. It's easy to sink into the routine of it, to let his mind go blank, lulled by the steady rolling of the wheels beneath him, the unfurling of the asphalt ahead of him, the roar of the engine and James Hetfield's voice in his ears.

The road's a sheet of ice now, though, and he probably should have walked to the diner to pick up breakfast, but it's cold and he's had three hours of sleep in the last forty-eight, and he wants his coffee. He fumbles with the bag on the seat beside him, maneuvering the steering wheel with his knees when he can't get the cup out with one hand, trusting that no one else is on the road at this hour in these miserable conditions. He looks up in time to see a truck bearing down on him, and cuts the wheel instinctively, hot coffee spilling over his hand and the seat as he skids out of the way. The back end of the car fishtails and the tires squeal in protest.

He pulls into the motel parking lot, burned hands shaking as he tries to drink what's left of his coffee. He mops the rest of it up from the seat with a handful of napkins, apologizing to the car under his breath.

He's thought about it, though he'd never admit to Sam--doesn't even like admitting it to himself--thought about driving head on into oncoming traffic, or missing a hairpin turn on one of those ridiculously narrow mountain roads they sometimes drive at high speed in the dark. He's even thought about locking himself in a garage somewhere and just letting the engine run. But he's spent too much time taking care of the car to do that to her. She's the only thing in his life that's never let him down.

If he ever does it, he's not taking her down with him.

*

[**three.**]

Meg wraps a hand around Dean's throat, lifts him up, and shakes him like a dog with a chew toy. Demonic super-strength never stops being freakish.

She's jabbering at him, the usual line of threats and bluster, and his vision is starting to go yellow around the edges as she chokes the life out of him. He's pretty sure Sam is somewhere around here with the knife or the Colt, that even now, with everything fucked to hell between them, Sam will show up and save him, even if he can't save himself.

Dean lets himself go slack, just for a second, actually entertains the thought of letting her kill him, letting it all end right here. His vision is going dark now and his lungs are aching for air, but he can hear Sam stumbling to his feet somewhere off to his left. Dean decides he can't lose to Meg, of all people, especially not after what happened in Carthage. She slackens her hold, thinking she's won, and he kicks out with all the strength he's got, sends her stumbling right into Sam's arms. Before Sam can gut her with the knife, she raises her head, black smoke screaming from her mouth.

"Dean, you okay? I thought she had you there for a minute."

"I'm fine," Dean says, his voice a rough rasp, his throat protesting the rough treatment. "You really think I'm gonna let _Meg_ finish me off?" He's not sure his laugh sounds convincing, but Sam seems to buy it, and right now, that's the best Dean can hope for.

*

[**four.**]

Dean covers the table with yesterday's newspapers, then lays the guns out. He has an order he likes to do things in and not even the impending apocalypse can change that. Cleaning the weapons settles his nerves, which have been shot to hell, since, well, hell. His hands don't shake when he does this, though, familiar motions calming him, easing some of the tension in his neck and shoulders. The smell of solvent and oil reminds him of Dad, calling up an ache in his chest that makes it hard to breathe.

He imagines what his father would say to him now, after his endless string of failures, and thinks about putting the loaded gun in his mouth and pulling the trigger. Though given his luck lately, he'd probably fuck that up, too, end up doing enough damage to take him out of the game, but not put him out of his misery.

He weighs the gun in his hand against the knowledge of the mess it would make--blood and brain spattered across the room for some poor minimum wage slave to clean up. He can't even think about what it would do to Sam (selfishly hopes it'd still hurt), finding him like that.

Even if he went straight back to hell (something Dean can't contemplate without needing a drink or twelve), Zachariah would probably yank him back out, and he doesn't want to deal with that smug, self-righteous fuck again if he can help it.

Dean shrugs and gets back to the business at hand.

*

[**five.**]

Sam's usually the one who keeps the first aid kit stocked with lots of stops at walk-in clinics that don't demand insurance, and forged prescriptions at chain drugstores. Now, he shakes a Percocet out of their limited stash and holds out an empty palm to Dean.

"Dude, the other hand," Dean says, gritting his teeth against the pain in his ribs.

"Give me your flask."

Dean squints up at him, confused. "What?"

"I'm not letting you wash down Percocet with whisky."

Dean blinks. "Sam--"

"Hand it over."

Dean reaches into his pocket to pull out the flask and winces when the motion pulls at his ribs. He slaps the flask into Sam's open palm harder than necessary, and Sam frowns, eyebrows drawn together in annoyance. He goes into the bathroom and Dean can hear him filling up a glass at the sink. Then he comes back and hands the glass of cloudy water and the pill to Dean.

Dean decides he's more interested in taking the pill and stopping the pain than he is in arguing about it. He can always get the flask back once Sam's asleep.

"It's an ugly way to go," Sam says.

"What?"

"Mixing drugs and alcohol. Do you really want to choke on your own vomit and die face down in a puddle of puke?"

Dean shrugs a shoulder and then regrets it. It's not like he hasn't thought about it--the rock star way to go--but he's not going to admit it now.

"And don't give me any bullshit about Hendrix or Belushi."

Dean glares up at him. "I wasn't going to--"

Sam sits down on the bed and runs a hand through his hair. "Don't, Dean. Please. Don't lie to me." He meets Dean's gaze with one of his own, eyes wide and moist, that goddamn kicked puppy look that he's been using since before he could talk to get Dean to do things his way. Dean thinks he should be immune to it after everything, but he can still feel the way it pulls at him, makes him want to do whatever Sam asks.

"Is there any good way to go?" he asks bitterly. He'd thought there was once. He'd been wrong.

It's Sam's turn to shrug. "Asleep in bed, surrounded by a dozen grandchildren?" He doesn't sound convinced, but Dean's not going to fight him on it.

"Okay." Dean wishes that was in the cards for him, for both of them. He tips over onto his uninjured side and curls his arms around his middle. What the hell, he thinks, starting to drift off as the drug takes effect. In their line of work, there'll always be another opportunity.

end

~*~


End file.
